


Virtue and Vice

by sainthound



Series: Camp Camp rarepair hell [6]
Category: Camp Camp (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Cheating, Clarice is Harrison's mother, Crimes & Criminals, Dana is Nurf's mother, F/F, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Joseph is Harrison's father, Lesbian Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 16:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18210896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sainthound/pseuds/sainthound
Summary: She wonders what her good Christian neighbours would say about her if they knew. Cheater, probably. Adulterer. Scarlet woman. Criminal. Sapphist. Sodomite.Not for the first time, nor for the last, her courage falters and she wonders whether this is such a good idea after all.





	Virtue and Vice

"Clare, babydoll."

Clarice jumps as if she's been stung, her head snapping up as an embarrassed flush creeps onto her face. "Don't _call_ me that," she retorts, too sharply.

Dana grins impishly from where she stands, taking up almost the entire doorway with her bulk. She tuts disapprovingly, but her eyes are glinting with mirth - she's laughing at her, really. Clarice could swear she gets off on this.

At the very least, she finds it funny.

"Sounds like someone's forgotten her manners." Dana shakes her finger as if scolding a naughty puppy. "Better watch your tone, honey. I've gotten soft on you, but I'm still your boss."

Clarice's shoulders tremble and she averts her eyes, admonished. "Sorry, boss."

She can almost hear Dana's wolfish grin.

All the better to eat you with, my dear. 

"Good girl."

Clarice hates what those nicknames do to her. They make her feel small. Ornamental. They set the butterflies in her stomach fluttering, make her pulse jump. They make her feel hot and uncomfortable, like there's some kind of undetectable itch she needs to scratch.

She presses her thighs together under the desk and tries to look amicable. "What was it you wanted, boss?"

Dana steps further into the room and pulls the door shut with a soft click. There are many things she might want, Clarice thinks slyly. She may want her to run an errand, anything from fetching some cakes from the bakery to delivering a package that could get both of them locked up if the contents were discovered. She might want to talk business, rant about her competitors and enemies, snarl about those nosy Millers always trying to catch her out.

She might want company. That, Clarice is happy to provide - she's a personal assistant for a reason, after all. Soothing Dana's worries, running her slender fingers through her cropped hair, nodding emphatically along with her complaints and distracting her with idle chatter and compliments - these are all things she can do. She's good at it. She knows just how to stroke her boss' ego.

Dana might also want a different kind of company. Clarice is all too happy to provide that as well, though she would never admit it outside these four walls.

Oh it's _scandalous_ , this double life she leads. At home she's Clarice Tucker, pious housewife - wouldn't hurt a fly, the neighbours say. 

Scared of flies, they also say in hushed tones behind her back. Scared of her own shadow. A bit of a laughing stock, but a pitiable one, one that people cluck their tongues at and give a sympathetic smile to in the street. Poor dear, they mutter, and walk on eggshells around her.

She almost prefers her other, less acceptable persona, the one she indulges in every day when she steps into this godforsaken office to earn her living. 'Personal lapdog to the most dangerous and corrupt mob boss in Boston' has quite a ring to it, she thinks.

She wonders what her good Christian neighbours would say about her if they knew. Cheater, probably. Adulterer. Scarlet woman. Criminal. Sapphist. Sodomite.

Not for the first time, nor for the last, her courage falters and she wonders whether this is such a good idea after all.

"God, I'm friggin' tired," Dana sighs, dropping into the plush red chair near the door. She drags her hand over her face, then grins. "Clare, honey?"

Clarice nods delicately. "Yes, boss?"

"Be a doll and fetch me a smoke, would ya?"

With trembling fingers, Clarice opens the third drawer down in the desk and finds an opened box of cigars. She used to wrinkle her nose and cough weakly at the smell of smoke, and Dana used to find it hilarious to blow it right into her face - but these days, she finds herself burying her nose in Dana's suit jackets just to breathe it in. It makes her feel secure.

She finds the box of matches in the top drawer underneath a handgun, and gets up so hurriedly she nearly trips over the chair legs, making Dana chuckle low in her throat. God, that sound makes her go weak at the knees.

"Whoops. Careful, honey."

"I've been sat down all day, taking your wretched phone calls," Clarice replies snappishly, carefully edging her way out from behind the desk with the boxes in her hands. "I've not had time to stretch my legs, and--" she purses her lips suddenly, taking a deep breath to quell her irritation. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean--"

"Kitten's got her claws out, I see," Dana interrupts, raising one eyebrow and smiling like a shark. She settles back with her hands folded behind her head and gives another guttural chuckle. "You're cute when you talk back. Just don't insubordinate me too often, yeah?"

Clarice breathes out in relief and gives Dana a drained smile. "Yes. I-- I mean, no, I won't."

"Good girl." There it is again, that somehow demeaning praise, as if Clarice is a pet that just learned a new trick. It's making her a little short of breath.

"C'mere." Dana beckons to her and she moves attentively to her side, trying not to embarrass herself again. Her boss shakes her head, amused.

"Your legs are awful clumsy. Gorgeous, though," she adds purposefully. Clarice meets her eyes for a fleeting moment and shyly glances away again, taking a cigar out of the box and handing it to her without looking.

"I think I'm a very lucky woman, y'know?" Dana continues, placing the cigar between her lips. "I've had those pretty legs of yours around my waist. So I think I'm very lucky indeed."

Clarice strikes a match and watches as it flares to life, reflecting like a spark in her eyes. "They're not pretty, really," she mumbles, embarrassed. There's an odd hollow feeling in her throat, and she swallows visibly to try and force it down. "Thank you, though," she adds hastily. Her boss is awful sweet, but she can't see how anyone could possibly describe her legs as pretty. 

Her legs, with those telltale white lines crisscrossing everywhere. Even Joseph purses his lips and looks away when they lay together, but she can tell he sees it all too clearly. They always do. How can they not? It's just another one of her shameful secrets, except she wears this one like a stain on her skin.

Dana waves her hand dismissively.

"Whatever. You oughta show 'em off more," she continues as Clarice lights the cigar for her. She breathes in and the tip flares orange. "Flaunt what you've got, huh? Like Candy."

"Candy's a shameless harlot," Clarice blurts before she can stop herself. She blows the match out, throws it into the waste basket and presses her lips together in a taut line.

Dana falls silent for a long moment and Clarice bites her lip, afraid she might get a telling-off. Candy is Dana's oldest friend and closest accomplice - she should've known better than to insult her like that.

But then a strong arm creeps slowly around her waist and before she knows it, she's been tugged backwards and fallen into her boss' broad lap, her legs thrown over the arm of the chair. She squeals indignantly and tugs her skirt down from where it's ridden up, glaring up at Dana's leonine smirk. "Well-- well, I never--"

"Candy's a shameless harlot, hm? She's a shameless harlot for showing a little cleavage?" Dana purrs, holding Clarice in place with a firm hand on her belly. She takes the cigar from between her lips and blows out a plume of dark smoke. "What about you, babydoll? What does that make you?"

Clarice squirms, trying to struggle upright - and just barely masks a squeak when Dana bucks up teasingly against her backside. She blushes, pressing a hand over her mouth, and her boss chuckles low in her throat.

"You've got some cheek callin' Candy a harlot when you spread your legs for me at a moment's notice, honey," Dana growls, caressing her cheek with a surprisingly gentle hand. Her other hand, not quite so gentle, is incredibly warm and heavy on Clarice's trembling thigh, moving slowly up towards the more sensitive flesh between her legs. She takes a shuddering breath, her hand fluttering to her chest. "I-- oh--"

"Not so judgemental now, hm?" Dana murmurs, noting with a smirk how limp and malleable Clarice has suddenly become, draped over her lap. She strokes her assistant's inner thigh with her thumb, and her legs fall just a little further apart. "There we go. Can I touch you, honey? Up here?" She trails her fingers up a centimetre or so, nudging against the warm fabric of Clarice's underwear. Her assistant gasps stutteringly and nods.

Dana grins. She likes Clarice when she talks back and becomes shrill and irritable. She likes her when she's prudish and blushing, scowling when Dana tries to cop a sly feel and hissing "Not _now_!". But she likes her the most when she's like this, docile and quivering, making the sweetest little noises as Dana caresses her thighs and makes her _wait_ for it, makes her wait for it until she's begging and squirming and dripping down her legs.

Clarice presses her hands over her mouth, gazing down with half-lidded eyes at where Dana's fingers inch torturously slowly up her thigh. "Please don't-- please don't tease me too much," she whines. "I can't take it."

"Ah-ah. You _will_ take it," Dana corrects her, moving her fingertips in slow circles. Clarice whimpers helplessly, wriggling her hips and opening her legs a little wider, but Dana ignores her. Her fingers keep tracing those small, slow circles on Clarice's thigh, and she won't move them higher until she feels them getting wet.

Judging by Clarice's desperate, flushed expression, that won't be too long.


End file.
